Meeting of Equals, or, Haven't I Suffered Enough?
by mb1017
Summary: Takes place after Lyle is shot in 'Red Rock Jarod.' Gore, inanity, conspiracy, and waffles follow. Includes flashbacks and insights into the Centre, 1982.
1. Thumbless in the Desert

Don't own 'em, don't sue me. Feedback appreciated. More to follow (I think). Rated R for potty mouth and gore. Enjoy!  
  
A Meeting of Equals, or, Haven't I Suffered Enough? By mb1017  
  
He could hear Kyle dying, gasping into the dusty twilight, but he was most aware of his shoulder, as the pain rebounded on him and slammed down like a pile driver. He could hear Parker cursing colorfully as she got to her feet, but he momentarily could not see as he adjusted to the increased level of pain, with all his might willing his brain not to shut down. He had sunken to the ground, leaning back against rotting wood which splintered off into his shirt and into his back as he dragged himself along without seeing, into the shadows where he could not be seen.  
He had rounded the bend, cursing the pain in his side and his hand and his shoulder when suddenly he was confronted with a new thing to curse.  
A pair of shapely legs ending in a pair of black lizard pumps too shiny to have been in this accursed desert for long blocked his path. In the future he would have no idea why these details stuck so vividly in his mind, but he had a notion he would never recover from the shock of this turn of events. Momentarily and very literally struck dumb, he stared through a haze of pain up at the owner of the pumps and legs.  
A tall, dark woman smiled rather sheepishly down on him. Either he was shrinking or she was just about as tall as Parker, he thought inanely. Already tall woman wearing heels. Damned emasculating. He mentally slapped himself and attempted to focus, but it was really no good. His field of vision was shrinking, and he felt the hard earth of the desert, hot even in the evening, spinning under him. His eyes painfully sought her face, some sign of her intentions.  
"You must be Mr. Lyle," came her voice, absurdly conversational, the last thing he heard before slipping mercifully into unconsciousness.  
  
He was a fucking mess. Barely recognizable as the well-groomed and vaguely squirrelly-looking Centre employee in the photos she had been given. She sighed as she lifted him up, her arms under his shoulders, as she tried valiantly to ignore the smell and keep his blood off of her black leather trench coat, which was new after all. Pulling him along was surprisingly easy to do; he appeared to have lost weight, and his eyes, now closed, had the hollow and bruised look of someone who has lost too much weight in too short a time.  
She could hear Jarod's sobs as Kyle doubtless succumbed to his wounds. She clacked her tongue in annoyance. They both had always been such prima donnas. Goody Two-Shoes Jarod always trying to help people and Mr. Hot Shot "I Decide Who Lives Or Dies." Lah-dee-fucking-dah.  
She opened the back door of the dark sedan in which she had arrived in this one-horse town and grunted as she hoisted Lyle's inert form inside, trying not to jostle him too badly. She leaned down over his shoulder, close, her dark hair brushing his face, which consequently is why she jumped up and yelped so loudly when his eyes opened suddenly.  
His right hand shot up from his side and grabbed her throat. His grip was machine-like, his grey eyes cold and desperate.  
"Who....what do you....who do you work for?" he finally got out, his voice strangled and hushed. Staring down into his bloodshot eyes, which she supposed had once been beautiful, she would almost have felt pity if he hadn't been crushing her larynx. And assuming she could feel pity at all. As it was, she could only stare at him, seemingly frozen even as she clawed at his arm with both her hands. His hand seemed superhuman; adrenaline, thought a detached portion of her mind. Goddamn. So this is how it's going to end. Ahh, this looks bad.  
None of this showed in her face. Lyle could see only dark eyes locked on his, no emotion, no compromise. She could feel his grip begin to loosen, his momentary burst of strength beginning to cost him. His eyes broke from hers and closed, his arm dropping away from her throat. She coughed in an affronted sort of way, massaging her neck, and backed away from the car cautiously, not entirely convinced he was unconscious.  
After what she deemed an appropriate interval with no sign of life from Lyle, she went to the front seat, skirting the area around Lyle as one might walk around the back of a skittish horse. She reached into a black doctor's bag for a syringe and two ampoules, one of a sedative, one of an analgesic, which she administered to Lyle quickly and efficiently.  
Reassured of her safety, she again leaned over his shoulder. Through the mess of blood and loose skin, she could ascertain that the cannon had only grazed his shoulder. This she deduced from the fact that Lyle still had a shoulder. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse. Kyle's marksmanship had always been shit under pressure.  
Lyle was, however, losing a fair amount of blood, which she assessed in a calculating fashion as she absently drew a sterile bandage from her bag and ripped its plastic packaging open with her teeth. She quickly applied a temporary tourniquet above the wound and mopped up some of the extra blood with gauze. Her eyes and her mind had already moved on to his hand, which was giving off a rather unmistakable smell.  
She gingerly peeled off the filthy bandage, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Gangrene. Fuck. As she looked more closely, she could see that it had claimed most of what was left of his thumb, the brief, raw stump which concealed the bone. The rest of his hand still seemed untouched, which she took as a good sign. She swiftly re-bandaged his hand, made sure his head was clear of the car door, and slammed it shut. Her heels crunched gravel as she made her way around the front of the car. Ah, impromptu surgery. What Saturday night would be complete without it, her mind drawled snidely. One fine day Raines was going to pay for all of this. Schlepping herself out into this godforsaken desert, almost getting strangled by a desperate, smelly psychotic, fucking everything. Including the coat, she noted in dismay as she looked down at herself. Blood everywhere. Fucking expensive coat. New, too. Nothing gets blood out. Fucking Raines.  
Lyle moaned, a pathetic sound, barely recognizable as coming from a grown human. She glanced back at him. The moonlight filtered through the window and across his face, where sweat was beading, the analgesic apparently not enough to allow him to escape his pain. She could see his eyes darting back and forth under his closed lids. No peace, awake or otherwise. She sighed. No rest for the wicked, it would appear. Not for him, and definitely not for her.  
She forced herself to stop with the self pity, to start the car and get it in gear, and mostly, to tear her eyes away from Lyle's face. He was, she had to admit, rather handsome, in that aforementioned squirrelly way. Boyish. Almost, and she laughed at the very thought, innocent. Don't be fooled by his pathetic exterior, Raines had half wheezed, half croaked at her, his blue eyes sharp and clear in his withering body. He can be disarming. But make no mistake about what you are dealing with. And she had smiled and turned on her heel and left the Centre. Don't you worry about me.  
Of course, there was the fact that he was a sociopath.  
Labels, she mused to herself as she pulled the car onto the barely paved, dusty road back to civilization. Always hated 'em. She and Lyle had been identified as and categorized under many of the same labels, by many of the same people. Thief. Rat. Con artist. Sociopath. She grinned. She was rather looking forward to Lyle regaining consciousness. This was going to be fun.  
  
When Lyle woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he no longer smelled as though he had died several weeks ago.  
Am I dead? he wondered, only half concerned with the answer. He tried to open his eyes but could not – it felt impossible, as though he were trying to keep his eyes open underwater, something he had never learned to do, had never liked the feeling of.  
He listened instead, and he felt. He had been taught long ago: use all your senses if you want to survive. Do not rely on only one. They can take anything away from you. And they will.  
Lyle could feel cool air on his face – a window was open somewhere. He tried to move his right arm. His fingers twitched, but his hand stayed put. I'm drugged, he thought. Body not working. Shit.  
Beyond that, he was not particularly aware of pain. His entire body throbbed with an indefinable, not quite pleasant sensation, unmistakably drug-induced. He could not feel anything at all from his left shoulder down. And he panicked. He wanted to scream; he tried to scream. He could not. His voice was just as useless as the rest of his body, trapped in his throat like a frightened animal. His body was immobile, so his mind raced, faster than it possibly could have had he been fully awake. He was drugged. Where am I? How did I get here? Who drugged me?  
Oh yeah.  
Black pumps. Nice legs. Very tall. Dark hair, dark eyes, very pale, freckled skin. Not Parker, though. Who, then? Never seen her before. Makes no sense. Can't feel my arm at all. Shit. You're not careful, you could lose the whole hand. Fucking smug Jarod. Pretty sure Jarod doesn't own pumps. Almost strangled her. Probably didn't endear myself to her doing that. Fuck. Who the fuck is she? What does she want? Who does she work for? The Centre? Maybe. Probably. Really though. Fuck.  
"Summertime, and the living is easy..."  
Lyle's mind froze mid-thought. Soft, high voice, a woman's. Ever so slightly off key. This is too strange, even for my dreams. Besides, I hate Gershwin.  
"Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high..."  
No fucking way. And I definitely don't know all the words to this song.  
"Oh, your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin' so hush little baby now don't you cry..."  
Lyle channeled Sydney and tried to discern a meaning. None was forthcoming.  
"One of these mornin's you're gonna rise up singin'...All right, you're set for now."  
No. No. Definitely hearing things. Drugged. But aware. Lyle vaguely recalled a Dateline special about patients who underwent surgery in horrible pain but under just enough anesthesia to be unable to call out to the doctors to stop them. Fuck. Panic. Fuck.  
           "Then you'll spread your wings and take to the sky... well that was awfully fucking messy, Mr. Lyle. Coulda lost that hand."  
Coulda. Meaning, didn't?  
"But til that mornin' ain't nothin' can harm you with your daddy and your mammy standin' by... Well, Mr. Lyle, unfortunately for you that isn't true. For any of us, really. Quite a crock of shit, actually. Pretty, though. I love Gershwin. And he didn't write the words."  
Oh. God. What kind of sick fuck would sing Gershwin while operating? I am in the clutches of a bona fide fucking psychopath. And I can't move. Fuck fuck fuck.  
  
She was really rather pleased, considering the circumstances. Lyle was resting comfortably, his breath even and steady, his left arm bandaged and in a sling. She hummed "I Loves You Porgy" under her breath as she tidied her make-shift operating room, smiling slightly as she was wont to do, more out of habit than of intention. Satisfied, she sat in a straight- backed wooden chair beside the bed, one leg tucked under her, surveying her work.  
Lyle was now shirtless, and she noted several other scars than the ones she had just helped to create. She had stitched the knife wound Kyle had left in his side, but she noticed other scars, faded white and sinister, on his chest and stomach, his arms, his back.  
She touched his ribs gently – she could count them. His torso was not muscular, just thin; his strength appeared to be in his arms. And his hands, she mused ruefully, rubbing her neck self-consciously. That'll leave a bruise. Fucking Lyle.  
His body was not the body of someone who worked out for aesthetic purposes, or to impress anyone. His body was a testament to survival, only that, and nothing extra. She had to admit that she found that beautiful. She found him beautiful, in a way she uniquely understood, a survivor herself. Not as a necessarily emotional or sexual object, but beautiful as art is beautiful – a creation, an improbability brought forth by a singular intellect. She beheld him, a fellow artist appreciating an equal talent.  
As she watched, he began to wake, slowly, as a child wakes, in fits and starts. His eyes were open, and they were watching her. She could not read his expression.  
She waited, keeping a respectful distance, mindful of the fact that she had not restrained him in anyway. She had not expected the effects of the sedative and his exhaustion to wear off so soon.  
"Who are you?" he asked softly, to his credit only slurring the words slightly.  
"I've come to bring you back," she said simply. His eyes closed briefly, then returned to her face, appraising, calculating even as the drugs still held him.  
"Are you in any pain?" she asked, her face not changing, never changing expression, always the same slight smile. He watched her a moment, then shook his head slowly.  
"Who sent you?" Her smile deepened, her lips parting to reveal slightly uneven teeth. Like fangs, she always liked to think.  
"Quite a few people, actually. But I'm here on my own behalf now." She paused, gauging his reaction. She got none. "We'll talk when you're feeling better. I spent the better part of four hours cleaning you up, and I'm going to bed. I will see you in the morning." She rose from the chair and pulled the covers up a bit further, to the middle of his chest, immediately a little embarrassed by the mindless, maternal gesture. He was close enough to grab her again; in fact he was eyeing her neck intently, but again she could not read his expression.  
"You're not going to cuff me?" he asked abruptly.  
"That's a little pathetic, don't you think?" she smirked at him, glancing at his bandaged arm but already reaching for the cuffs from behind her back. She thought she saw the hint of a smile before she clapped one cuff down on his right ankle, one to the foot of the bed. His eyes never left her; she began to fancy that he was a little afraid of her. Her smile remained in place; that was one part of the job she would never tire of. Satisfied that to escape would require more strength than he had, and considering that he was in no danger until the morning, she felt his body begin to relax as her hand lingered on his ankle, saw his head lean into the pillow.  
"Good night, Mr. Lyle," she said softly.  
"Good night," he echoed, even more softly, his eyes on hers, an injured, cornered predator eyeing its healthy rival. She nodded slightly before turning her back on him and leaving the room. She was aware of a rather silly grin spreading, unstoppable, over her face.  
This was even better than Raines had suggested. He was more complicated, and perhaps more dangerous, than those who had sent her to find him believed or imagined. This would be the beginning of a partnership, a meeting of equals. Now, all she had to do was tell Lyle. 


	2. Dreams

**Chapter 2: **

**See first chapter for warnings and disclaimers.  Feedback appreciated.  Enjoy!**   

The dream was always the same.  It never failed to confuse her.

            "Who are you?"  Raines repeated doggedly, for the thousandth time.

A nine year old girl glowered back at Raines with all the determination of a sumo wrestler.  She sat cross-legged on the cold, metal floor, clad in a grey dress which resembled nothing so much as an overlarge shopping bag with armholes.

"You tell me."

"No, you tell me."

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

Raines never got annoyed in this dream, which she knew for a fact would not be the case in person.  He repeated the question over and over.  The asinine exchange went on for hours.  As far as she knew, it wasn't a memory.  Raines always appeared as his younger self, with hair and sans air tank, generally with a lit cigarette in his hand.  There was never an answer.  She always woke up perplexed.  And with a rather inexplicable craving for Belgian waffles.

Her eyes opened.  She was on her back, the ceiling dingy and water-stained above her.  As if it ever rained in this godforsaken place.  Waffles.  There has to be a diner somewhere.

Focus.  Lyle.  Fuck.  What the fuck time is it?  Still dark out.

She fumbled in the cushions of the saggy couch for her watch.  She hated sleeping on couches.  Hell on her back.  She located the watch, Hermes, square face, gold setting, black calf band, impeccably tasteful, gorgeous.  A gift from Raines last Christmas.  She squinted in the darkness, trying to read the time. 

Great.  Half past line.  She hated watches with no numbers.  Fucking Raines lived to torment her even when he wasn't actually present.

Looked to be about five thirty, if she had to guess.  Only slept for two hours.  Fucking dream.  So confusing.  She was hungry now too.  And wide awake.

She sat upright, smoothing her rumpled blouse and attempting to straighten her woefully impractical hosiery.  As she unfolded herself from the couch, she touched her throat lightly; it felt about twice its normal size and swallowing was more painful than it was worth.  Lyle's got some grip.

            She went to the dingy, cracked mirror on the wall and lifted her chin so that she could assess the damage Lyle had done.  An ugly purplish bruise was clearly visible, despite the darkness and the dusty mirror.  She could make out five finger marks, like a shadow on her fair skin.  A turtleneck it is, then.  

Really should go check on him.  Dodgy, squirrelly little fella.  Her earlier, mildly over-romanticized view of Lyle was fading as fast as her bruise was emerging.  Devilishly handsome kindred spirit or not, he was still dangerous.  Like her.  Can't forget that.  

She took one last look in the mirror.  Damn. Getting a zit.  Has to be stress.  With a resigned sigh, she turned away from her equally exasperated reflection and moved across the uneven floorboards towards Lyle's bed.

The dream was never quite the same, the details, anyway, but the basic event never changed.  Nor did the impact it had on him: each time he woke up in a cold sweat, expecting a blow that never came.

"I'm really sorry, Jimmy," Bobby said, coldly, as though his voice had originated from somewhere far outside his body.

Jimmy couldn't hear him.  Or at least, he didn't respond, didn't look at Bobby at all.  He just stared ahead, past the rise of the cliff, past the shallow rapids below, his eyes fixed on air, on nothing.

Bobby stood behind Jimmy, poised to push him over the cliff.  As he raised his hands to do so, Raines would appear, sometimes behind him, sometimes suspended in an alarming fashion above the precipice, not unlike Wile E. Coyote a split second before the fall.

Bobby could see tears streaming from Raines' eyes, which alarmed him even more, but when he lifted his hand to his own face, he could feel tears there instead.  He was crying but he felt nothing, not sadness, not anger, not even numbness to pain – he felt nothing and it panicked him.  He lurched forward, pushing Jimmy over the cliff, sometimes even through the eerily floating Raines.

He would run then, at breakneck speed down the steep embankment – he still remembered each step, each rock and shrub, not 5 miles from his home.  He was always aware of Raines nearby, silent, and crying, as he was crying.

When he reached the rapids, he searched for Jimmy's body, running into the water which soaked through his boots, tripping over unseen rocks, but Bobby never found him.  

"Where is he?"

He wheeled around to face Raines, still silent, still crying.

"Where is who?"

Bobby approached Raines, reaching out with both hands to grab the older man by his lapels and shake the answer out of him.

"Where is he?"

Raines shrugged, impassive under Bobby's grip.

"Where do you think?"

Bobby cursed and turned away from him, his eyes away upstream, still scanning for Jimmy's body.  Consequently, he never saw the axe coming until the blade was an inch from his neck, and Raines' silence was broken by an awful scream, animal, a battlecry.

Lyle awoke before the blade touched his neck.  His eyes were open now, and his face was wet.

Where am I?  Fuck.  He tried to sit up.  His leg stopped him as the chain of the cuffs extended taut.

Fucking Ow.  Everything hurts.  Ankle, arm, hand, side.  Head.  Like Jesus, almost.  Like hell.

"Have a bad dream?"

Lyle very nearly screamed like a girl.  As it was, he managed to turn the noise into a strangled cough and grunted noncommittally at his captor, about whom he had almost forgotten.

She stood in the door, her hair and clothes rumpled, not so tall now that her shoes were off, her eyes in shadow, lidded heavily.  She looked as though she had just had several hours of particularly wild sex.  He would have made a comment to that effect in his very best suggestive come-hither voice, but he was in too much pain.  And too shaken by the damn dream.

"Arm hurts," he mumbled.  Slick.

"I bet," she said, her voice almost too low to hear, soothing.  What the fuck.

She crossed the room and retrieved a syringe from a black doctor's bag.  She prepared it as she walked toward him, with an absent, practiced air.  Lyle sucked his breath in as she took his right wrist and gently turned his arm over.  He would have pulled away, he did not generally stand for being injected by women who kidnapped him and cuffed him to beds, but something stopped him.  There was something in her face he recognized.

As she searched for a vein, he watched her, realizing precisely what it was he recognized.  She was not afraid of him.  She was sure of herself, and she was content, apparently, to wait, to bide her time, and he was utterly at her mercy, helpless.  She was like a big cat, a lion, secure in the knowledge that she was bigger and meaner than any and all comers, licking her chops and relaxing as the situation unfolded.

He knew that look.  Jarod frequently had that look, that smug, I'm so much smarter than you are, I'm not worried about a peon like you kind of look.  On Jarod, Lyle found it unspeakably galling.  On this woman, Lyle was intrigued.  And a little afraid.  And a little turned on.  Fuck.  Focus.  She could kill you while you sleep.  Game face on.

"Who are you?  What's your name?" Lyle clarified after a moment.

She regarded him with a vaguely amused expression, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"I thought you'd never ask.  Seraphina Parris."

Lyle snorted.  He couldn't help it.  Yeah fucking right.

            "Yeah fucking right.  That's not your name."

            "Yes it is," she protested.  He couldn't tell if he was indignant or making fun of him.

            "It is not.  Are you making fun of me?"

            "It is.  And I'm not, but I could," she said in a clipped tone of voice.

            "Come on.  It's made up."  Lyle was not quite sure why he was pursuing this, but he had an idea from the warm, fuzzy feeling spreading up his chest that it had something to do with the injection she had given him.  All of a sudden everything was so unbearably funny.  He tried hard not to giggle.  Fuck.  Keep your fucking mouth shut, you moron.

            "Yeah, it's made up.  So what.  So is yours."  She crossed her arms and waited for his response.

Lyle did not know what to say.  So he giggled.  She, Seraphina, that is, Lyle corrected himself with another giggle, sighed.

"I take it you're feeling a little better."  

            Just so funny.  Can't help it.  Hee.  Seraphina.

            "Seraphina…Ha."

            "I'll just let you alone, then."  She arched one eyebrow fetchingly and stalked out of the room.  Hee.  She's pissed.  She's _cute_.  Seraphina.  Fuck.  Can't stop.  Don't care.  Seraphina.


	3. Interlude: The Centre 1982

**Chapter 3**

**See chapter one for disclaimers and similar.  Feedback appreciated.  Enjoy!**

**The Centre, 1982**

            "Bobby, this is Emma."

            Bobby rose quickly from his bed, startled, clearing his throat awkwardly and shuffled his feet.  Dr. Raines stood between Bobby and a dark haired, dark eyed rail of a girl who was eyeing him suspiciously.  There was a nasty cut under her left eye which looked fresh.  Although she was wearing a shapeless, remarkably ugly grey dress (Centre issue, he assumed), he could tell she was about his age.  She stood nearly as tall as he did, and had an extremely unfortunate haircut.

            "Emma will be involved in your next SIM," Dr. Raines said after a few moments of silence from Bobby.  They regarded each other impassively, appraisingly.

            "Well, Bobby, aren't you going to say hello?"  Raines' voice was disturbingly, unnaturally pleasant; it made Bobby's skin crawl.  He also thought he could detect a slight, breathy wheeze in the older man's words.  Good.  Maybe the bastard's getting emphysema.  Fucking human ash tray.

            "Hello," Bobby said sullenly.  Emma said nothing.  Raines did not prompt her. Silence.  Bewildering.  Raines and the girl stood, silent, watching Bobby.  After what seemed like forever, Raines smiled a horrible smile at Bobby – false, and vaguely suggestive.  Bobby was privately mortified.

            "Come, Emma," Raines said, his hand at her side, his thin fingers pressing into her waist as he turned her away and back towards the cell door.  Bobby could not say why he found this so disturbing, but he found it extremely hard to watch.

            Emma looked back at Bobby as she reached the door, straining to turn around and see over Raines' arm.  Bobby felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.  He wanted to rip her away from Raines.  He wanted to KILL Raines for touching her.  He wanted to kill himself so he wouldn't have to watch.  Anything to stop the awful, constricting feeling her quiet, dark, desperate eyes inspired in him.

            "The SIM will begin tonight.  I will return for you then."  Raines did not turn around as he spoke.  The door slid closed behind him with a whoosh.  Bobby sat down on his bed, exhaling heavily.  Fucking bizarre.  Night SIMs were rare. Raines got weirder and more objectionable every day.  And Emma…he didn't know what to make of her.

            "Emma."

            Bobby jumped up off the bed with a start, his eyes wide, scanning his tiny cell for the owner of the voice which had interrupted his thoughts.  The air vent.  What the fuck.

            Gathering his courage, he stood on his bed to peer into the vent.  He was no stranger to the ventilation system; he had had many nocturnal adventures in the months he had spent in the Centre.  He had explored the cell block and seen lots of kids through the vents, some his age, some younger, but he had not spoken to any of them.  They all seemed half-dead, stupid, sitting as docilely as the rabbits in the SIM lab.  He had never encountered anyone else in the vents.  In fact, he had not spoken to anyone but Raines in months.

            A boy, about his age judging by his size, cowered just beyond the light which filtered in from Bobby's cell.

            "Who are you?"  Bobby asked cautiously.  No response.  "What about Emma?"

Something was not quite right about the boy.

            "What are you, retarded or something?"

It was quite unnerving.  All Bobby could see was the light glinting off the boy's eyes.

            "You don't start talking I'm coming in there to get you."  Bobby winced.  No matter how much Raines tried to coach him into eliminating it, his Midwestern accent always crept back into his voice when he was angry.  He couldn't talk like that and not think of Lyle Bowman.  The boy, in the meantime, demonstrated that he could at least understand Bobby, as he turned around on all fours, amazingly fast, monkey-like, silently moving back through the vent.  Bobby was impressed – it had taken him months to learn how not to make noise in the hollow, echoing vents, and he still had to go slowly.

            Raines would be back in a few hours.  Fuck.  Bobby weighed his options for a split second before removing the vent cover and hoisting himself up and inside in one fluid, practiced motion.  He was not about to let the only human contact he had had in months (Raines definitely did not count – man was a fucking vampire) just disappear into the ventilation system.  SIMs be damned.  He needed answers.  


	4. Waffles

**Chapter 4:**

**Disclaimers and warnings see Chapter 1.  Feedback appreciated.  Enjoy!**

Lyle was acutely aware of the fact that his head felt about the size of a watermelon.  Seraphina had apparently slipped him the veritable mickey last night.  Regardless, he still suppressed a snicker with difficulty every time he thought of her name.  Sounded like a porn name, for Christ's sake.  Seraphina Parris.  Right.

            It was surreal, he reflected, sitting in a red leatherette booth that was ripped in several places, in a diner in rather tenuous compliance with the state health code, in East Bumblefuck Arizona, with his arm in a sling and his head on fire, across from one _Seraphina__ Parris_ (another suppressed giggle) who with superhuman alacrity was scarfing down a double order of Belgian waffles with strawberries, whipped cream, ice cream, and syrup.

            Lyle stared at her.  She remained oblivious, or at least pretended to, serenely shoveling in another mouthful of waffle.  Frustrated at his lack of headway with this approach, Lyle cast his eyes down to stare dejectedly into his coffee, which he had not yet touched.  It was black, but he could see globules of grease floating on its surface, putting him in mind of a gasoline spill.  Fuck.  Mind keeps wandering.  Distracted.  Still druggy.  Shouldn't be out of bed, really.

            Seraphina had awoken him at 7 AM that morning, helped him out of bed and into the bathroom (which he had found less mortifying than he would have thought), checked his bandages, and herded him into the darkly tinted back seat of the car, cuffing his right hand to the dry cleaning bar.  That had been two hours ago.  After an hour and a half of driving that would have done Mario Andretti proud, she pulled into the parking lot of an isolated roadside diner and announced that she was going to have a large plate of waffles.  Since his arm was stiff and he was tired of hearing her alternately belt out or hum softly along to Madonna's Immaculate Collection, he did not put up a fight, or even ask her what the fuck was going on, which he most certainly would have under any other circumstances.

            He had nearly passed out when he stood up initially getting out of the car, and she had caught him, throwing her arm around his waist in a way other people would have interpreted as an intimate gesture.  She grinned into his face as blackness danced at the edges of his vision, and silently showed him the gun in its holster at her side, concealed under her fuzzy, marginally ratty sweater.  She didn't have to say it.  Don't try anything.

            Although his brain was still foggy from the drugs, questions plagued him.  Was she a Cleaner?  A Sweeper?  She wasn't like any he had ever met.  Her clothes, for one thing.  She had changed into jeans and the aforementioned ratty sweater, and was wearing a pair of witch-pointy, high heeled black leather boots.  Her and Parker.  Why do tall women insist on wearing heels?  It wasn't that he was intimidated by her size.  Oh, fuck no.  It just irked him that she was a little taller than him now.  Actually, he probably still had about a half inch on her.  Inch maybe.  Yeah.

            He rubbed his eyes with his good hand and groaned.  Brain spinning out of control.  Fuck.  Keep it together.

            Who the fuck _was_ this woman?  If she was a Cleaner or Sweeper she'd have been much more careful with him.  She wasn't even looking at him, she was mopping up leftover syrup with a piece of bacon, not a care in the fucking world.  She hadn't spoken to him since they had left … wherever it was they had spent the night.  He really couldn't remember details.  Just that she had injected him with something.  Fucking bitch drugged him.

            He couldn't really muster the energy to be angry.  He glanced up at her again.  She was trying to get the waitress's attention for the check.  Lyle still hadn't touched his coffee.  

            "Where are we going?" 

It was the first time either of them had spoken since they had left (Seraphina's rousing rendition of "Vogue" notwithstanding), and he noted with satisfaction that he seemed to have startled her.  Recovering herself, she smiled and shrugged.

"I told you.  Back."

"And then what?"  He was not sure he wanted the answer.  She shrugged again, still smiling, always smiling.  Fucking creepy bitch.  The waitress approached, check in hand.  She had enormous, preternaturally frosted yellow hair and long blue fingernails.  Her nametag read "Flo."  Lyle leaned his head on his hand and fixed her with a glazed-over stare that he honestly meant to be threatening.  

"Flo" fixed them both with a stern, disapproving, and distrustful look as she handed the check over to Seraphina.  She looked from Lyle's bandaged arm to 

Seraphina's bruised throat to the plate the size of a trashcan lid where the waffles had been and then back to Lyle.  Fuck you, lady.  Lyle's mind silently blew a loud, wet raspberry at Flo.  Everyone so fucking judgmental.  Bastards.

            Seraphina reached into her sweater and pulled out a twenty, which she plunked cheerily down on the table.  She slid herself happily out of the booth and favored Flo with a winning smile.  Flo said nothing, but scooped up the twenty and backed away.  Seraphina held out her hand to Lyle.  He stared at it blankly.

            "Come on, honey," she said.  He strained to hear condescension in her voice.  No.  She sounded like she meant it.  Honey.  What the fuck.

Against his better judgment, he took her hand and rose painfully to his feet.  After a moment, apparently satisfied that he would not fall on his ass, she inclined her head ever so slightly towards the door.  Lyle preceded her, his steps heavy.  Back to the fucking car.  Maybe at least she'd change the CD.

            Ahh.  100 percent better.  Waffles do the trick every time.  Bitch waitress, though.  I _hate_ people who give me attitude.

            Lyle fixed her with a pathetic glance as she re-cuffed him to the dry-cleaning rack.  She wasn't sure if it was sincere or not.  Might have been.  Too fucking bad.  His druggy-hangover would subside soon, and she wasn't taking any chances.  Ah.  Whitney Houston, perhaps?  She really hoped her kooky antics were beginning to wear on him.  Her throat was getting sore.  Her kooky antics were surely beginning to wear on her.  

She was almost positive he was starting to let his guard down.  The gun was regrettable, but necessary.  He understood that.  But otherwise she was truly doing her best to be disarming in a non-threatening, charmingly eccentric, feminine kind of way.  Kind of Bridget Jones meets Niccolo Macchiavelli.  It was a matter of time.  Trust was a lot to ask for under the circumstances.  And she could only drag out her return to the Centre for so long before Raines got suspicious and bellowed at the top of his black lungs for a team of Cleaners to finish her job for her.

She snuck a glance at Lyle in the rearview mirror as she pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the desert highway.  He was staring at her, and he met her eyes immediately, holding eye contact, a challenge thrown down before her.  The hangover _was_ wearing off, it would appear.  He was like a fucking pit bull.  Eye contact.  Very important with vicious dogs.  She smiled at him in a simpering, girly kind of way before returning her attention to the road.  Motherfucker.  Just when you think you're making progress.

Mentally berating herself for being too cocky, she turned up the car stereo.  Ah, but I do love this song.

She could see Lyle roll his eyes in the rearview mirror as tinkling synthesizer filled the car.  I do in fact believe the children are our future.  That's right.  Nothing to be scared of.  Just me.  Go ahead and try something.  Silly, eccentric Seraphina.  

Ha.  That name is _so_ fake.


	5. Down the Vent

**Chapter 5:**

**The Centre, 1982**

            Bobby was completely out of breath and had skinned both his knees by the time he caught up with the boy.  He had followed the boy down through the vents, through so many sub levels he lost count.  The boy stayed just far enough ahead to avoid Bobby's grasp, but Bobby had the distinct impression that the boy was slowing down, letting him follow, taking him somewhere specific.  Finally they stood, not three feet apart, Bobby breathing heavily, the boy apparently yet to break a sweat.

            "Look," Bobby said between gasps, "I'm sorry I yelled at you.  But I haven't seen anyone in months.  Who are you?"

The boy squatted down, diverting his eyes coyly.

            "I'm Bobby," Bobby finally said, exasperated.  "Now you tell me _your_ name."

            "Angelo," said the boy, smiling but still not looking at Bobby.  He pointed to the duct at which they had stopped.  Bobby sighed and knelt beside Angelo, peering down, following Angelo's finger.

            A thin boy with dark eyes and painfully pale skin was slouching in the corner of a cell identical to Bobby's, slinking back and forth like a caged cat.  Kyle.  Bobby had participated in SIMs with him on one or two occasions.  He had never found Kyle's cell before – it had been a 15 minute run through the vents from Bobby's cell.  From their limited contact Bobby had tentatively deduced that Kyle was a complete fucking psycho.  But that wasn't who Angelo was pointing at.

            "Kyle, this is Emma."

Raines' voice.  What the _fuck_.  Sure enough, he could see the top of Emma's dark head.  He could almost feel the tension in her thin shoulders as she stood before Kyle, poised as if ready for a blow.  She had some sense at least; nothing good was going to come of this.

            "Emma will be involved in your next SIM."  No one spoke.  Kyle's eyes glinted.  Fucking psychopath.  He was practically growling.

            "Come, Emma."  Raines again.  "The SIM will begin tonight.  I will return for you then."

            Fucking _weird_.  Who the fuck was this girl?  And the SIM… the last time Bobby did a SIM with Kyle he wound up with a broken wrist, a black eye, and a week's starvation rations from Raines for retaliating.  Bobby looked away as Angelo tugged on his sleeve.

            "What?"  Angelo pulled Bobby to his feet and led him away from the duct.

            "Emma," Angelo repeated.

            "Yeah, Emma, now what about her?  Who is she?"

            "Emma …sad.  Emma…quiet."  Angelo's face was a study in despair.

            "Who are you, fucking Tarzan?"  Bobby was perplexed, and therefore, irritated.  "Sad and quiet.  What else?  Why is she here?  Why is Raines making us do a SIM with her?"  Angelo shook his head sadly.  He was starting to cry.

            "That good, huh.  Well, Angelo, you mind taking me back to my cell?  I'd rather not have Raines pissed before the SIM even starts."

Angelo brushed past Bobby and started heading back up through the system, faster than before.  Bobby struggled to keep up, now not only running, but climbing back up through the sub levels.

            By the time they arrived back at the correct floor, Bobby was out of breath again.  He was about to kneel and slip back through the vent into his cell when Angelo grabbed his wrist.  Bobby noticed Angelo's eyes for the first time – they were a curious blue, so light they were practically transparent, the color of water.  They were locked on his, searching his face, desperate.

            "What now?"

Angelo closed the distance between them and hugged Bobby hard around the middle.  He held him for a moment, then stepped back with the same, sad expression.  Then he turned around and sped back through the vents.       

"_What?_"  Bobby hissed.  What the _fuck_.  Fucking weird-ass day.  Boy meets girl.  Vampire touches girl inappropriately in front of boy.  Boy startles boy.  Boy follows boy through air conditioning.  Boy eavesdrops on boy, girl, and vampire.  Boy confuses boy.  Boy hugs boy.  Boy confuses boy.  What fucking next?


	6. En Rapport

**Chapter 6:**

**Warnings and Disclaimers, see Chapter 1.  Thanks for the reviews/encouragement!**

"Home sweet home," Seraphina exclaimed as she held the door open for a more than slightly suspicious Lyle.

            "I thought you were taking me back to the Centre."

            "In a rush to meet the inevitable, are we?"  She could only muster up just enough energy to smile as she said this.  After 4 hours total of driving and a 6 hour flight with a largely less than communicative Lyle, she was really getting quite sick of projecting the sweet, delightfully eccentric and effervescent individual she pretended to be.

They had landed in Delaware an hour ago, and had just arrived at Seraphina's latest pied a terre – a largish, two story structure reminiscent of a Provencal farmhouse.  She smiled as she watched Lyle, standing beside and slightly behind him to facilitate the cuffing of his right hand to her left.  He could not conceal an appreciative look around at the tastefully appointed, understated elegance of the house.  It was a long way from Dry River, that was for fucking sure.

Almost 24 hours after their first meeting, Seraphina was still not sure about Lyle.  Usually she could flesh out peoples' character almost immediately, but Lyle was unpredictable.  Whenever she felt his guard slipping, as soon as she sensed it, it seemed he would sense it too, turning abruptly away.  For instance, he had fallen asleep on the plane, leaning into her, almost leaning his head on her shoulder.  Fucking adorable.  Would have been more so if he hadn't smelled.  He awoke not two minutes later with a growl and started aggressively grilling her again on everything from what the Centre wanted with him to why on earth someone as tall as she was would want to wear heels, though she could tell his heart wasn't really in it.  He was weakening.  He had to be.  He was tired, anyway, and probably in some pain, which she could use to her advantage.

"You must be exhausted, I know I am.  Come on, let's get you to bed."  He raised an eyebrow at this.  She simpered.  She was getting a little disgusted with herself.  She led him upstairs and into one of the house's several bedrooms.  She could feel him sag a little at the sight of the bed.  He _was_ tired.  Be careful.  Make nice now.  She reached into her jeans pocket for the handcuff key, took it out, unlocked the cuffs.

"Sit," she said, indicating the bed.  He sat, rotating his wrist, watching her intently.  Massaging her own wrist, she went into the adjoining bathroom and located more first aid supplies.  She half expected to see him checking the window upon her return, but no, there he was, where she had left him, rubbing his eyes, his face.

"Do you want to take a shower?"  she asked, in what she hoped was a shy voice.

"What, together?" he smirked.  Again, she could tell he was toying with her out of habit, but he was truly exhausted and didn't look as if he particularly wanted to pursue it.  She smiled coyly.

"I think I'll sit this one out.  I'll be right outside – I need to re-bandage you when you're done, and check on that hand."

He nodded, and she stepped back to allow him into the bathroom.  He stopped halfway through the door, his back to her.

            "Why are you doing this?"

            "Doing what?"  She inquired innocently.  This was it.  This was the break she was looking for.  He was starting to really feel sorry for himself, she could tell.

            "You're being very tolerant of me.  You've taken care of me.  They're just going to kill me anyway, right?  Why bother?"

            "Well, you wouldn't want to die smelling like that, would you?"  This was definitely it.  It wasn't quite a laugh, but she could see his shoulders move as he exhaled through his nose.  Close enough.  She backed off and sat down on the bed.

            "I'll be here when you're finished."

            "Thanks."  His voice was quiet, so quiet, as he closed the bathroom door behind him.  A little too quiet.  Shit.  This had better fucking not be a trick.  Not after all this work.  But just in case…

            She rose, removing her sweater, and then her shoulder holster.  She removed the gun, removed the clip, checked it again to be sure.  Yep.  Blanks.  She put the gun in plain sight in its holster, on top of her sweater in the chair beside the bed.  Then, sitting again, she removed her second weapon from its ankle holster, placing it under the pillow, within easy reach.  She did _not_ want to shoot him, if only because it was frustrating to shoot someone whom you had just finished stitching back together.  She did not trust him.  Not for a minute.  But this would be the test, to see if they had enough of a rapport to be getting on with.  This was the best opportunity she had seen in a long time, and the only one she was likely to see any time soon.  She just hoped she could convince Lyle of the same.

            So.  The plot thickens.  Who the fuck _was_ this woman and how could she afford to live like this?  She could not possibly be as good or as sweet or as dumb as she was playing, although he had yet to find a crack in her exterior.  What was her fucking _deal_?  She seemed to harbor no illusions about the Centre, at any rate.

            Lyle caught sight of himself in the mirror.  Jesus Christ.  I look fucking awful.  I think I smell too.

            He was faced with a desperate character, hollow eyes, unshaven, looking as though he had just returned from a war.  Okay, so it's definitely not that she's responding to my boyish charm.

            Lyle began, slowly and rather painfully, to undress.  Thankfully she had cut that damn tie off him at some point.  His shirt, bloody now at the side and shoulder, trousers, shoes, socks, all in a pile on the floor.  He stared at his naked reflection, assessing the damage Kyle's last shot had done to his shoulder.

            Kyle's probably dead, he reflected absently.  Jarod'll be pissed.  Joke's on Jarod though.  I did him a bit of a service.  He would have found out sooner or later that Kyle was just like me, completely incorrigibly sociopathic, and it would have destroyed him, I'm sure.  Saved him from that.  I'm just so _thoughtful_.

            There was some blood on the bandages Seraphina had put in place the night before – he might have pulled a stitch or two.  She seemed to have done a good job, though; as he pulled back the gauze on the knife wound in his side, he noted the fine, even stitches, not causing him any discomfort.  Probably wouldn't even leave much of a scar.  Bruise from where Parker had hit him with her gun there, though.  Fucking psychotic bitch.

            He sighed, turning the shower on, running his fingers through his filthy hair as he stepped in.  Felt So.  Fucking.  Good.

            Well, he thought, leaning his forehead against the tiles as the water washed over him, so now the Centre knows I'm alive.  Though, not for long, if they have anything to do with it.  But who, _who_ is this woman?  She's more than a hired gun.  She wouldn't appear to even be a very _good_ hired gun, all the time she's let me keep to myself.  I could have killed her, hell, several times over.

            _But you didn't_, his mind whispered nastily.  Why not?  Something stopped you.  Why let her live?  She's being nice to you.  She's treated you decently, at least.  But when the fuck has that ever stopped you from killing someone before?  You've killed people a _lot_ nicer than her, that's for damn sure.  And furthermore, every moment that passes she is taking you closer to when the Centre can exact its final revenge on you.  She is herding you cheerfully to your death, and you, you silly bastard, are just going right on along with her.  So what _is_ it with her?

            That look.  He vaguely remembered it through the haze of drugs.  She was definitely more than she was letting on, and he had seen it in that moment.  She was not afraid of him.  She was not disgusted with him, or by his actions.  He was biding his time, and she, it would appear, was biding hers.  That look of Jarod's, of a superior intellect that fully recognizes its superiority and all the implications.  And come to think of it, the singing, the waffles, that utterly infuriating smile, it was all kind of overkill.

            He was going to go back out there and figure out what the hell was going on.  He was still tired, but he could feel his strength returning.  He always had strength for this.  This was survival.  It was the only thing he cared about.

            That is the difference between Kyle and me.  He didn't care if he lived or died (though he _would_ apparently have liked to decide, as he frequently asserted).  All he wanted was revenge, he would do anything to get it.  I'm different.  Revenge is nice.  So is golfing.  But more than anything, I want to live.  To survive.  

And that, Lyle decided, was what he would do.  If she could help him, fine.  If not, well then there was going to be another proverbial notch on his gun.


	7. The Competition

**Chapter 7:**

**Disclaimers and warnings, see Chapter 1.  Thanks for the feedback/encouragement – enjoy!**

**The Centre, 1982**

Kyle.  Scrawny, scrappy, tiresome boy.  Very self-important and fond of exclaiming:

"_I_ decide who lives or dies."  

Bobby rolled his eyes.  Yeah yeah yeah.  _You_ decide who lives or dies.  I've decided you _suck_.  There was still quite a bit of bad blood between the two boys, especially after last time.  Having two budding adolescent sociopaths tactically re-enact the Cuban Missile Crisis turned out not to be exactly conducive to the interests of political science, as it were – it had taken four grown guards to break up the ensuing fist fight.  Bobby kept his silence, not looking at Kyle, watching Raines closely.  Raines had smiled that awful, because unnatural, smile at Kyle after his remark.  Ugh.  Don't encourage him.

The two boys stood on the floor of the SIM lab, which was darker than usual.  The only light was coming from below and behind where Raines stood, effectively making him more ghoulish-looking than ever.

"Well, boys," said Raines in an offensively conversational tone of voice, "our next project is about to begin.  The SIM will not actually begin tonight, but I would like to take this opportunity to explain what we will be doing for the next few months."  Raines snapped his fingers imperiously.  A door whooshed open on the upper level, and out stepped Emma, slightly off-balance as she was apparently shoved out by a guard, more than a little frightened.  Raines beckoned her, and she walked slowly down the stairs, never taking her eyes off him.  As she reached him, Raines returned his attention to Kyle and Bobby.

"There is to be a competition.  From now on, the two of you will be pitted against one another in everything you do.  You will work side by side each day.  Your progress will be evaluated by myself, as well as other by doctors here at the Centre.  You will work harder than you have ever worked before.  But there will be a reward."  Raines smiled again.  Bobby felt his stomach contents shift unpleasantly.  He was almost positive he knew what was coming, and he did not like it one bit.

"Only one of you will receive this reward."  Bobby watched in private horror as Raines yanked Emma's loose, shapeless dress off.  Shit.

Kyle did not look surprised.  Kyle looked as though he hadn't eaten in months and had just seen a rare steak.  

Bobby swallowed hard.  He had killed before.  It had been all too easy.  He was learning not to be particular about these things.  But this…well, Bobby was not a rapist.  A murderer maybe, admittedly, but not a rapist.  If anything, he rationalized to himself, it's a blow to my self-esteem.  Forcing yourself on someone who doesn't want you.  

And she very clearly did not want him, either of them.  She was shivering, all pretense of appraisal or calculation gone; she was looking from Kyle to Bobby 

to Raines with sheer horror, trying desperately to cover herself.  She tried to rip her dress back from Raines, tugging mightily, but she was rewarded with a slap across the face which sent her spinning to the floor.  Kyle bristled, excited, baring his teeth in a horrible grin.

            "When does the competition begin, Dr. Raines?" asked Kyle, not taking his eyes off Emma.

            "Your first exercise will begin tomorrow morning," said Raines, utterly ignoring Emma, who had curled herself up in the smallest ball possible.

Bobby looked at them both.  This was sick, even for the Centre.  He had not yet spoken.  He did not quite know what to say.  His mind stopped working and his mouth took over.

            "So, let me get this straight," Bobby began, his eyes on Raines, "you want me match wits with this psychopath for something I don't even want?  There might be a flaw in your hypothesis there, doctor."  He could see Raines begin to stir, angry at Bobby's disrespect.

            "Kyle a psychopath?  I'm reminded of a saying about people in glass houses, Bobby."  Raines was smug, hoping for a reaction from Bobby.  Bobby gave him no such satisfaction.

            "You don't want her?  I find that hard to believe," Raines said in a low, dangerous voice.

            "Hey, it's okay, I know you're not smart like Kyle and me, you want me to draw you a flow chart?"  Bobby asked innocently, slowly, as if he were talking to a small child.  Raines' ears were turning red.  He was really pissed now.  He was going to get the _shit_ kicked out of him.  Oddly, he didn't care.  He was aware that Emma and Kyle were both staring at him, open mouthed.  Bobby could only glower back at Raines, grinning, gladiatorial.  We who are about to die salute you.

            "That won't be necessary," Raines snarled.  He snapped his fingers and guards seemed to materialize out of the darkness, advancing on Bobby.

            "What are you gonna do, put me in solitary and only let me talk to you?  Oh, wait, that's my life," Bobby exclaimed sarcastically.  

The guards drew their truncheons.  Ah, fuck.  He started to run, and would have gotten a bit farther than he did, had Kyle not lunged out and tackled him.  Fucking suck up hypocrite.  He hates Raines too.  I'll get him for that one.

As the guards descended on him, he could hear Raines' voice – it was the last thing he remembered hearing before they beat him unconscious.

"Well done, Kyle.  The competition will continue, and you have just advanced yourself toward your goal.  But first, I think Bobby here must be taught a lesson."

Bobby was aware of a low, animal sound, a whimper – Emma was crying.  He was not sure why this affected him so, but it did.  It was as if Emma was doing something for him that he could no longer do, expressing something he could no longer express, and he was singularly grateful, and sorry for her before the blackness took him.


	8. A Visit in the Dark

**Chapter 8:**

**Warnings, disclaimers, see Chapter 1.  Thanks very much to Rem-Cycle for the continued and insightful reviewing -- enjoy! **

**The Centre, 1982**

            Blackness.  Bobby had been locked in his cell, the lights had gone out, and the food had stopped coming.  Then the noise had started.  It was indefinable, grating, loud, and utterly obnoxious.  Bobby had not slept in days.  He lay on his bed, nursing his wounds and thinking to himself: fucking stupid Raines, fucking stupid Kyle, fucking stupid SIM.  And fucking, fucking _Stupid Bobby_ for getting himself into this mess.  Trying to be a hero.  Yeah fucking right.

            Bobby had lost count of the days – it was always hard to tell in the cell, he had not seen the actual light of day in months.  But now there were no boundaries, everything was night.  No one had even been past his cell in what seemed like days.  Thanks to Lyle Bowman, Bobby was now more than slightly claustrophobic.  The fact that he could no longer see the walls began to wear on him – they could be closing, and he would have no idea until they crushed the life out of him.  Half of him knew this was a paranoid fantasy, a product of his food-deprived, sleep-deprived brain.  The other half wouldn't put it past the Centre to try something like that.  Shrinking rooms.  Fucking hell.

            He was in quite a bit of pain.  The thrashing the guards had given him aside, Raines had also allowed Kyle to get in a few choice blows.  Now, his head was also pounding from hunger.  He wrapped his arms around himself, as if to prevent himself from flying to pieces.  He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the wall, reassuring himself it was still there, trying to block out the ever-present whining shrieks that surrounded him.  He did not even have the energy to get up and into the vent, to try to escape, some way, any way.  Fortunately for Bobby, this did not matter.

            He felt two feet land squarely on his shoulder and jumped up from the bed, snarling – he fell to the floor and extended his arms, cursing the darkness.

            "What the _fuck_ is going on?"  A hand grabbed his, thin but strong.

            "Who are you?  What do you want with me?"  Bobby tried to keep the panic out of his voice.  He jumped again as he heard a voice next to his ear.

            "Hello."  It was just loud enough, and close enough to his ear, that he could hear it below the continued and accursed cacophony Raines was inflicting on him.  Bobby shut his eyes.  He knew the voice.

            "Angelo?"  A giggle.

            "Jesus Christ, you scared the _shit_ out of me.  What are you doing here?"  No response.  Bobby sighed.

            "Angelo, this is not a fun game.  Why don't you just tell me what …"

Bobby was cut off as he felt a hand on his face, soft, and far too small to be Angelo's.

            "Emma?" he asked, softly.  It was her, he knew it.

            "Thank you, Bobby," said Angelo, but it was not his voice.  It was comical, a little higher than it should have been, and more, well, lucid than Angelo seemed to be.

            "Thank you for what?"  Bobby asked Angelo, bewildered.

            "For what you did in the SIM lab.  You've delayed the project for a week at least."  Bobby was beginning to get the strangest feeling.

            "Did Emma tell you about that?" Bobby asked, cautiously.

            "I _am_ Emma."

Ah.  Well.  This was kind of fucking weird.

            "What do you mean you _are_ Emma?  You're Angelo."

            "Angelo is an empath.  I can speak _through_ him."  This was weird, but it began to make sense.  Then again, it could be the hunger talking.

            "And you… can't speak."  Bobby felt Emma's hand on his arm.

            "No."

            "Why not?"  Silence.  Bewildering.  Her hand was still on his arm, and it was a little unnerving.

            "Well, so, what, you came here to thank me?"  Bobby attempted to restart the conversation.

            "Yes, and to tell you something."  Bobby waited expectantly.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt both of Emma's small, soft hands on his face as she pulled him down to her and kissed him gently on the lips.  He felt her move back.  What the _fuck_ was going on?

"There's no getting out of this.  I know that."  Angelo's voice, Emma's words.  Bobby had still not quite recovered himself.

"I just want you to know where I stand."  She wants me to win.  That would be kind of sweet, if the whole idea wasn't so appalling.  He remained silent.

"I know what you're thinking.  Angelo knows too.  But you haven't been here very long.  We both grew up here, Kyle did too.  You'll discover that you have no power, that they'll do what they want with you.  You can't stop it."  Bobby was beginning to feel sick.

"We have to go.  But remember what I said."  Bobby quashed the impulse to stop them.  He wanted to say something, but couldn't.  He started as Angelo hugged him again.  Kind of glad _he_ didn't try to kiss me too.

He could hear the vent clank shut behind them, barely audible with all the racket.  Bobby sat down on his bed with a huff.  Jesus fucking Christ.  So she wanted him to win.  It bothered him, though, the hopelessness, of powerlessness that he had heard in her voice.  She had given up.  She didn't want to try to escape, didn't want to find a way out.  She had stopped caring.  And she had advised him to stop caring too.  Not yet, Bobby thought darkly to himself.  Raines had taken his innocence from him; Raines had unleashed a monster in him – now the monster was ready to turn on its master and find its own way.


	9. The Pitch

**Chapter 9:**

**Warnings, disclaimers, see Chapter 1.  Thanks again for the reviews – it's a rush to know someone reads what I write – enjoy!**

            Seraphina started as her cell phone rang.  Only one person has this number.  And I don't really want to talk to him right now.  Sighing, she answered.

            "Yes?"

            "Do you have him yet?"  Raines breathed on the other end.  Seraphina got up and walked to the window, massaging her temples.

            "Yes, sir.  I'm still en route."

            "Well, have you heard from Parker yet?  Has he made you any offers?"  He was practically gasping to get the words out.  Good.  Bastard.

            "No, sir.  But I'm expecting it sometime soon."

            "Has Lyle made you any offers?  Does he want to deal?"  Raines sounded almost desperate, but it could have just been the emphysema.  Seraphina silently hoped that it was both.

            "He hasn't, sir, but I think we can assume he wants to deal.  He's not stupid."  A pause, in which she could hear Raines' labored breathing over the phone.

            "Keep me informed."  He hung up.  Another enlightening conversation with the good doctor.

Seraphina sighed again as she tossed the phone to the nightstand.  Raines wasn't really in a position to deal with Lyle, not if Parker came through.  And even if he didn't, it was the Triumvirate that wanted Lyle in small pieces, after all.  They had first crack at him.  Parker was their best hope, Lyle's and Seraphina's.  Why exactly he wanted Lyle back so badly was still something of a mystery to Seraphina, but he seemed to have made it clear, to Raines at least, that Parker was firmly behind Lyle, and would not be put off.

Musing on how best to broach the subject to Lyle, she was interrupted by the creak of the bathroom door, opening slowly.

***

            Lyle gingerly toweled off his hair as he stepped out of the shower, careful not to touch the nasty, bruised laceration on his forehead.  He looked into the steamy mirror.  Much better.  He looked down at his discarded clothes.  No way am I putting those back on.  Sighing, he wrapped himself in a towel and opened the bathroom door, ready to face Seraphina and demand some answers.

            There she was, sitting on the bed where he had left her.  She gave him a slight smile as he approached her, patting the bed beside her and holding a pair of scissors, with which, he assumed, she was going to remove his bandages.  He was about to go to her when he noticed the gun.

            Careless.  It was right there, large as life, on the chair near the bed.  It was still within her reach, but, he calculated, he could reach it before she did.  Come on.  She'll think I'm stupid if I don't go for it.  Stupid, or timid, neither of which is true.  Lyle thought for a moment, then did what he always did – he followed his instincts.

            She didn't look surprised at all as he lunged for the gun.  She just sat there, dropped the scissors, stared at him.  Cornered.  Now he was going to get some fucking answers.  The largish gun, a .38, was in her face.  Lyle could not refrain from smirking.

            "All right.  I want some answers, now."  She shut her eyes a moment, then returned her eyes to his, still calm, questioning.

            "Who do you really work for?"

            "I work for the Centre," she said calmly.  He was about to wave the gun and ask for more when she said, "Mr. Raines, specifically."  Raines.  Now he was getting somewhere.

            "And what does Raines want from me?  He could have sent someone to kill me easily enough.  But he sent you.  Why?"

She cast her eyes down and smiled modestly.

            "I have earned his trust, if one may use that word.  He has faith in my abilities.  He has been made to understand that you must not be harmed.  So he sent me, and not a Cleaner."  Lyle was taken aback.  Not to be harmed?  Then what the fuck was this all about?  And her voice was different.  Colder.  More focused.

            "If you're not a Cleaner, what is it precisely that you do?"

Her eyes twinkled.  "A little of this, a little of that.  Kind of like you, before you left."  Like me.  Yeah fucking right.

            "Look, I'm sorry, _Seraphina_, but I have trouble believing the Centre is just going to let me slide."  He got closer, sitting beside her on the bed, gun between them, large and menacing.  He lowered his voice threateningly, a malevolent purr.  "What's really going on, hmm?"  

She turned to face him, still meeting his eyes steadily.  It was unnerving, but she had revealed herself.  He definitely wasn't imagining it.

            "You have powerful patrons.  Patrons who are willing to sacrifice much for your return, in anticipation of your loyalty."  Patrons my ass.  Everyone who isn't completely fucking terrified of me hates my guts.  Or just doesn't know me very well.  He cocked the gun.  She held her ground.

            "Like who, for instance?"

            "Before I tell you, you should know something else.  I told you before I was here on my own behalf.  I think we have a lot to offer each other."  Ha.  Right.

            "I don't know, Seraphina, I'd find that statement a lot more compelling if I didn't have a gun in your face."  She ignored him.

            "I know all about you.  About your past.  Who you were, how you grew up, what Raines did to you."  Lyle stiffened.  He did not like where this conversation was going at _all_.

            "I know you hate him.  Truth be told, so do I.  And I know you're ambitious.  Even if he were not an immediate danger to you, Raines is still a hindrance.  He knows where too many bodies are buried."  Lyle swallowed hard.

            "And so, it would seem, do you."  He wanted to cut her off quickly, before she could say more.  Lyle did not care to hear about his past.  He thought about it enough already.  He stood, pointing the gun at her.

            "You won't shoot me," she said, calmly.

            "You think I won't?"  Lyle said, his voice rising slightly.  Never tell me I won't.  I'll tend to do things just for spite.

            "Oh, I think you would," she said, looking into his eyes.  "But you're not going to."  What the fuck?  Lyle had had enough.

            "Sorry.  I was starting to like you, a little bit."  She was still smiling that goddamn smile, like the cat that ate the fucking canary.  She was still smiling as he pulled the trigger.

            Click.

            _Fuck_.  _Now_ I feel stupid.

            Before he had a chance to curse, or lunge, or anything at all, she had reached behind her and pulled up a gun from under the pillow.  She cocked it at his chest.

            "I assure you, this one _is_ loaded."  Lyle was slightly panicked, but more irritated.  And embarrassed.  Quite.  He concentrated hard on not turning red.

            "Why did you just let me go on like that, then?" He asked, exasperated.

            "Now that I have your _attention_," she said pointedly, "Let me continue.  As I said, I know you must want Raines out of the way.  And, as I said, you have allies.  Mr. Parker, for one, is very interested in your safe return to some power at the Centre."

            "Parker?"  Lyle couldn't help it.  He had busted the man's balls repeatedly about the hunt for Jarod last year.  He had gotten the distinct impression that the elder Parker did not care for him any more than his daughter did.

            "I'll admit I was a little surprised at first when I heard.  But I think I understand."  Lyle waited, watched her.

            "He wants you to do his dirty work for him, it would seem.  Take Raines down."  Makes sense.  Why are you telling me this?  "Of course, I leave it to your imagination what will happen _after_ that happy day, assuming Raines doesn't kill you first."

            "One day at a time," Lyle said sardonically, but his mind was working again.  "Why are you telling me this?"

            "Like I said," she shrugged, "I know about you.  And I think we can help each other.  We can have _everything_, no more taking orders from Raines or anyone else.  And besides, you must want revenge."  Revenge.  There's that word again.

            "Revenge generally doesn't come without a price," Lyle said cautiously, considering.

            "Well," she said, lowering the gun, removing the clip.  "I'll let you think about it.  I should hear from Mr. Parker sometime tonight.  As soon as he lets me know it's safe, I bring you back to the Centre.  In the meantime, let me re-bandage you, and then try to get some sleep."  Lyle nodded dumbly.  He submitted mutely as she carefully checked and re-bandaged his hand, his side, his arm.  She picked up a pill bottle from the nightstand and silently shook it at him.  Vicodin.  

            "If you need it.  Good night, Mr. Lyle."  He watched her silently as she left, picking up both the guns, her sweater, her cell phone, pausing at the door to turn out the lights.  She had not cuffed him.  It was a little arrogant on her part.  But he was just too goddamn tired.  And confused.

            As Lyle stretched out on the bed, all remaining energy deserted him.  His eyes closed, his mind sputtering like a damaged truck engine.  Seraphina _not_ a moron.  Parker.  What the _fuck_?  Back to the Centre.  Home sweet home, indeed.


End file.
